


and there you will have a dark queen

by hihoplastic



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9258677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: You haven’t dared summon her, not with the others around, but after dark on the third day you cut a path toward the river and wait, until the moon is bright enough and your nerves are strong enough to grip the dagger and call her name to the sky.No one and nothing appears.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theforgottenpromises](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theforgottenpromises/gifts).



> \- For [theforgottenpromises](http://www.theforgottenpromises.tumblr.com) for Tumblr's Once Upon a Secret Santa. I'm so sorry this took so long! It's quite lengthy, so I'm going to post it in chapters. I hope that's alright, and that you enjoy it! You said you liked angst, so. Um. There's a lot of it. <3  
> \- Thanks to Pam for the encouragement as always!  
> \- Title bastardized from Galadriel's speech in _Lord of the Rings_.  
>  \- This runs AU for Season 4 & 5.

The forest is motionless—no creatures, no wind. The leaves beneath your feet make no sound, and you can barely breathe for the stillness. Clouds crackle with lighting and smoke but no rain falls. It’s days and days.

Your mother remains positive: _She’s changed,_ she says. _She’s strong,_ she says. _She’ll be alright,_ she says. You aren’t sure if it’s for you or herself that she keeps repeating, and repeating, and repeating.

The trees thin out and you come to a village.

 _Maybe she’s been through here,_ your mother says. _Maybe we can—_

But the village is full of bones, burnt bodies and half-houses and one man left alive, just barely. He lives long enough to look you in the eye.

 _She’s back,_ he whispers, _she’s back. Please, god help us. She’s back._

\--

You follow the bodies.

Corpses on the roadside next to small piles of ash.

You follow the black-charred trees and wilting flowers and silence.

More than once, Henry stumbles away from the group to the edge of the forest and vomits into the grass, the flowers, the hedges. You always follow and rub his back and hate yourself for bringing him.

Regina will hate you, too, when she learns.

You haven’t dared summon her, not with the others around, but after dark on the third day you cut a path toward the river and wait, until the moon is bright enough and your nerves are strong enough to grip the dagger and call her name to the sky.

No one and nothing appears.

\--

_Robin is gone and it’s your fault and there isn’t a damn thing you can do to make it right. You find her in her office, her desk like a throne between you, and try to find some words that make up for the sheen in her eyes and the stiff line of her shoulders._

_“You did what you had to,” Regina says, her voice flat. She keeps her eyes on the papers before her._

_“I thought it was the right thing.”_

_It was the right thing—you know that and so does she but it doesn’t feel that way, with the distance between you._

_“I’m sorry.”_

_Regina shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t have worked anyway.”_

_You frown, and hate yourself for the flinch Regina covers at your surprised, “Robin loves you.”_

_She looks up, and for one moment, you can see all her ghosts. “He won't, when he finds out I killed Marian.”_

_“You didn’t kill her.”_

_“Only because you intervened.”_

_You shake your head. “You don’t know that. Besides, Robin will—”_

_“What? Forgive me?” She looks away. “Everyone has their limit.”_

_You don’t know what to say to that. Can’t imagine, after all this, anything Regina could have done you wouldn’t forgive._

_“You can still have a happy ending,” you say, but everything sounds like grey._

_Regina barks out a laugh and your teeth clench, determination at war with guilt at war with the barely controlled desire to touch her, to hold her hand or hold her close or somehow show with words you can’t say that it’s true._

_“I made a promise,” you say. “All the happy endings, including yours.”_

_“Don’t worry, Ms. Swan,” she says, and the name catches you like a fist. “I won’t take a trip to the dark side over this.”_

_“I’m not worried about that,” you say, and wish she had your power, wish she could tell by your face that you aren’t lying. “I’m worried about you.”_

_You expect her to shove it off, expect the bite that often follows sentiment, but she pauses._

_“Why?”_

_It’s almost worse, the question, for all the answers it holds._

_“I’m your friend,” you say, as close to the truth as you can stomach. “Even if you aren’t mine.”_

_She holds your gaze for a moment, then looks away._

_“Henry should stay with you tonight,” she says, picking up a stack of papers._

_“Sure. Regina—”_

_“Goodnight, Ms. Swan.”_

_You accept the dismissal but your feet drag, and you look back over your shoulder at the door. Her eyes are closed, one hand over her eyes as she takes a deep breath. Her other hand is shaking._

_\--_

Snow’s convinced she’ll be at her castle, so that’s where you head, dark spires looming in the distance like an iron crown.

You make camp in the woods off the trail and sit by the fire and try to warm yourself but everywhere feels cold. You hold the dagger in your hands and stare down at her name and wish and wish and wish but it doesn’t change, and you wonder how many people are going to pay for your mistake. There’s a body count already, higher than you’ve ever seen.

 _You’ve never met her,_ your mother had warned, watching you shove items into a backpack. You were barely listening then, too frantic, too angry, too terrified to do anything but act.

 _It’s Regina,_ you’d said, and missed the look on Snow’s face, the one she’s giving you now, like she knows everything.

She can’t, you’ve made sure of it—you guard your heart well.

Henry flits in and out of sleep, his head in your lap and blanket around his shoulders.

Across from you, Snow warms her hands over the flames and catches your eye. Asks if you’re alright. Asks if you want to talk. There’s nothing you can think of to say. A wrongness sinks in your stomach and you have trouble breathing sometimes, like there’s a hole in your lung siphoning out the air.

\--

“I didn’t see,” the villager says, crying around her son. He’s Henry’s age, thin and tan and beak-nosed. He looks nothing like your son, but still. “I didn’t see—I don’t know what happened. There was a commotion and then everything was on fire.”

“It was her,” the husband says. “Only one person has magic like that.”

“Lots of people have magic like that,” you say, snappish, defensive. Your gaze keeps going back to the boy.

Snow takes over as you look around, what was once a small collection of houses, a market, all ash. The meadow around it, ash. The sky still dark. You aren’t far behind, but far enough.

In the distance, a lone house stands.

“Is that yours?” you ask, pulling away from the group to step towards it, drawn. The wife follows and nods.

“The fire turned right at the last minute,” she says. “It was a miracle. It just… stopped, and turned, like…”

“Like what?”

“Like it knew.” She looks back over at her husband, her son. You look back, too, for a moment, then to her. “He got caught in the fence,” she says, her voice shaking. “We were trying to run, but his leg—I’d have lost my boy if that fire’d stayed on course.”

“Why do you think it didn’t?”

She shrugs, and wraps her arms around her waist. “Sometimes even monsters have mercy.”

\--

You look like hell.

You’ve barely slept, barely paused, magic a rush under your skin. You’re tense and alert and running on fear—concern, worry, more appropriate words. At night when you close your eyes you think of Henry’s book, of the stories you’ve been told. You think of the villages she’s destroyed. You try so hard to make her the Queen, but she’s always been Regina. Even at her worst, Regina.

There’s an anger to your motions you haven’t been able to shake, the ripple of murmurs in Granny’s when you announced the plan. When you looked around and saw mostly pity, mostly carelessness, mostly eyes that refused to meet yours.

“If you ask me it’s good riddance,” someone mumbled, and it wasn’t you that snapped it was Henry, Henry with wild eyes and nearly screaming, Henry who sat with a blank face when you told him, Henry who said _what do we do_ like you knew the answer, like you were supposed to know.

You don’t know. You haven’t a clue, except _find Regina_ and _find Merlin_ and _keep him safe._

Regina’s last words. You couldn’t hear her, but saw her lips move through the black vines before she vanished in a crack of lightening, nothing but a dagger at your feet. _Keep him safe._

\--

_She’s still angry, but you’ve nowhere else to go. At least that’s what you tell yourself. Excuse after excuse not to go to your parents, Elsa, Hook, Ruby. You want to talk, but you don’t want to explain how it feels—fizzling under your skin like a livewire, sparking and dying and sparking again. You want someone who knows, and however selfish it may be, it doesn’t stop you._

_The door opens and she’s on the other side and you feel lighter for seeing her, despite her grimace._

_“What do you want, Emma?”_

_You show her your hands, flashes of magic leaping up from your skin. “I didn’t know what else to do.”_

_She sighs, but ushers you in the house that strangely feels comfortable and always has. She orders you to the living room and returns a few minutes later with cider you know is heavily spiked._

_“You need to calm down,” she says by way of explanation, and you can’t argue with that, especially when she sits next to you on the sofa (not across, not away) and takes a long sip of her own. She says nothing, and you can’t expect her to—not yet, not now. When the silence starts to gulf, you pick a coward’s subject._

_“Where’s Henry?”_

_“Upstairs, asleep.”_

_You nod, but can’t call anything to say and she doesn’t want to speak, staring at the fire without seeing. You wonder if she starts it with magic. If she snuffs it out with magic._

_It hadn’t occurred to you before, the effort behind those easy spells and whiffs of smoke. She always makes it look simple: a flame, then no flame. A light, then no light. She breathes magic, and it’s in everything she does, from the simplest motion—tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—to the most complex potions._

_You think of what it cost her, and wonder if it’s always the same price._

_You want to ask her a thousand questions. Want her expertise, her knowledge, her support. More than that, you know, but you don’t dare._

_The rim of the mug shocks you like a static charge, and you jump, glaring down at one hand. Regina rolls her eyes, but abandons her drink on the table all the same._

_“Give me your hands,” she says._

_You set the cider aside and turn to face her, hands outstretched. She fits the backs of your hands to the insides of hers and says, “Close your eyes.”_

_You do without question._

_“Think of something that makes you happy.”_

_“Happy?”_

_“Purely happy. The best thing you can remember.”_

_“I—”_

_“Don’t tell me. Just think about it.”_

_You think of Henry. Of the year in New York. You think of video games and late night talks and cocoa with cinnamon. You think of his smile and your mother’s smile and your father’s smile and your family now and it’s good, it’s perfect, but there’s something missing, there always is, and you wonder if it could ever be—_

_“Happy, Emma,” she reminds you. “Try again.”_

_You crack an eye open. “How did you know?”_

_She looks down at your hands, still light._

_You think of what it would be like if your family were whole. If it could be you and Henry and her, always, always her. You think of picnic lunches she would barely tolerate and movie nights and what her hand might feel like, bare skin to bare skin. You wonder if she tastes like apples perpetually. You think of what it might be like to tuck your face in her neck and sleep. You wonder what sounds she makes when she comes._

_You picture a smile all your own, one she gives you and only you._

_“Better?” she asks, as her hands fall away._

_You blink, and the world seems darker—you’d imagined so much light._

\--

The castle takes your every footstep and hammers it against the walls. There’s no stealth, no quiet after you slip in through the underground.

You call her name, and wince as the great hall answers.

“Maybe she’s not here,” David says, but you know she’s here, can feel her like a second skin, your magic tastes her magic in the air.

“Mom?” Henry calls, “Mom, where are you?”

“I’ll start upstairs,” you murmur, not a step forward when your mother catches your arm.

“No. We stay together.”

It’s her concerned voice, her _I was worried about you_ voice, her _nothing will ever, ever tear us apart_ voice, and you cover your hand with hers.

“I’ll be fine. She won’t hurt me.”

Snow tightens her grip on your arm, enough to bruise. “You don’t know her, Emma.”

Her voice is hushed to keep from Henry, and you look down at her hand, trembling on your arm, and back up at her eyes, trembling on yours.

“You’re afraid.”

It sounds like a revelation.

“She was so powerful, Emma,” Snow whispers. “When she cast the first curse—and now she’s—”

You nod, and gently pry her fingers away. “I’ll be careful.”

It isn’t good enough for her but you can’t help that, can’t show her an understanding you don’t have. You know who she was and you know what she’s done—you’re a product of that, a failure, but it seems like so long ago. You aren’t sure when she stopped being _the mayor_ or _the evil queen_ in your mind but even your heart seems to pulse _regina, regina, regina._

“She’ll be in the tower,” Henry says, pushing past you. “Come on.”

You follow, staircase after staircase, round and round. Everything is so dark, so cold, impenetrable and barren and you think of what it looks like to your mother and what it looks like to Henry and what it must have been like for her, to fall so far.

You check rooms here and there but Henry seems determined, confidant. You don’t stop, even when you’re winded, following the punishing pace he sets despite the tension in his shoulders and sweat on his neck. You should stop him, make him slow but you can feel his panic like a live thing between you, and honor it.

He doesn’t pause at the top, just opens the door and half runs down the hall. “Mom! Mom, we’re here!”

He skids to a halt in the center of a cavernous room.

You vaguely recognize it from the storybook: the vanity with a myriad of potions, the balcony, the fireplace, the ornate chairs.

“Mom?”

His voice is quieter now, hollow.

You put a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Regina?”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The voice is raspy but firm and you both spin toward the sound. You can barely make her out in the shadows.

Henry’s shoulders sag with relief. “Mom—”

“Don’t.”

He freezes in front of a barrier that shimmers yellow and then vanishes. Your stomach sinks.

“Regina? What’s wrong?”

She tuts at that at least, mirthful and wry. “A loaded question, Ms. Swan,” she says, but your name doesn’t have any fight in it, and you don’t understand until she moves out of the dark and you grab Henry’s arm instinctively at the same time he moves forward again, instinctively.

She flinches, but her eyes meet yours and she understands, knows why you keep your fingers curled over Henry’s shoulders, drawing him back against you.

She’s barely there.

There’s a black cloak around her shoulders, what looks like a black dress underneath but without the adornments the Queen always had—there are no jewels, no metal, no tight harsh lines. Her hair is long but free and shot through with white, her skin the same pallor, almost iridescent until you look closer, see the cracks of black like veins, inching their way across her face and neck.

“What are you doing here?”

Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. “We came to find you.”

“‘We’?”

“Grandma and Grandpa,” Henry says, “Robin and Hook and the others are looking for Camelot."

Her face wrinkles in annoyance. "Hook?"

Henry explains, but he doesn't know all of it. How Hook’s only here because you're here and Robin’s here because she's here and _I still care_ and you don't doubt that, not with the longing in his eyes and regret on his tongue. He loves her, but it’s a _missed out_ love, a _what could have been_ love you don't think he takes enough responsibility for, not in the aftermath. 

He’d asked you once, on a quiet night at Granny’s, what he could do to get her back. 

Your heart shifted uncomfortably in your chest, but you knew Regina was home alone and knew she missed him too so you took a deep breath and said, “People have been trying to tell her what to do, what's best for her, her whole life. Let her come to you.”

He had, and she hadn't, and you shouldn't feel as good about that as you do but you can't help it. 

Just like you can't help but shy away when Hook touches you, an excuse always on your tongue to get away. He’s relentless, and it’s everything you can do to convince him to go with Robin and Belle and what few others came and find Camelot. 

“I'm not leaving you alone with her,” he’d said. 

“You’ll only make it worse,” you’d said. 

“She’s insane,” he’d said. “You've never met the Evil Queen.”

“She’s my friend,” you'd said, “And she’s still Regina.”

"That's what I'm afraid of," he's said, and you'd taken it poorly, anger and fear simmering too close to the surface, and lashed out. He lashed back, loud enough to make your father inch toward you in the diner, hand on his sword. 

“I need you to do this,” you'd said finally, swallowed the bitter feeling on your tongue and added, “for me,” because you knew he’d go. Because you care and you like him but it’s not enough, and hasn't been for a while, and if he comes with you he’ll know. 

You should tell him, but he’s better than an empty bed, even if it’s not the bed you want. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you interrupt. Pushing Henry gently to the side, you approach the barrier, prodding it once to see it flicker. It covers half the room, wall to wall. Taking a deep breath, you summon the magic to your palms. “I can get you out.”

“No!”

Her voice cracks and Henry jumps and you freeze.

“I can’t,” she says, desperate, and you lower your hands slowly.

Henry asks, “Why not?”

She doesn’t answer but you know. You can see it in her eyes, darker than you remember them, in the fists she has pressed against her thighs, the tight line of her shoulders. The way she stays half in the dark.

You swallow, and your throat feels like gravel. “Henry, go find your grandparents, let them know we’re all okay.”

“What?” He looks bewildered, betrayed, and you muster the firmest voice you can, the _no arguments_ voice you’ve heard Regina use time and again. “No, I—”

“Henry. Go.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

“I’m not going to do anything, Henry—”

He puts his body between you, her small frame nearly vanishing behind him. “I won’t let you hurt her.”

There’s a venom there you haven’t heard before, not directed at you, and your mouth falls slightly open, your breathing hitching under the rage in his eyes.

“Henry…”

“She won’t hurt me, Henry,” Regina says, and he turns his back on you. “I’ll be okay.” She nods toward the hall, a half smile on white lips. “Go. It’s okay.”

He looks at you and you nod, unsure what to say to the suspicion in his gaze.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises her, and takes off down the hall at a run. His footsteps echo like drums in the chamber and the moment he’s out of sight she sags, knees buckling. She catches herself on the edge of a wing-backed chair, easing her weight against it, and you forget yourself, forget the barrier, and it shocks you, a little electric spark running through your veins.

“What’s going on? Regina?”

You can’t see her face, her hair a curtain, but she’s breathing heavily, her arms shaking.

“Regina, talk to me. Lower this.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t.”

You grind your teeth together. “I’ll use it if you don’t.”

When she looks up, what little color she had left is gone. “No, I mean I _can’t._ I made it so my magic won’t work.”

“Why?”

She glares at you out of too-black eyes.

“Okay, right, fine, but something’s wrong.” When she doesn’t answer, when she moves away, you shake your head and lift your chin and hands. “Fine. I’ll get rid of it.”

“I said don’t!” She whirls on you, a streak of white flashing in her eyes and behind her, a chair goes flying, slams into the ceiling and then into the ground, splinters of wood and glass careening. She inhales, breath harsh and the furniture shakes and dust falls from the ceiling but outside the barrier, nothing moves.

“You locked yourself in.”

She clenches her fists and looks away. “Not fast enough.”

You think of the villages, the trees on fire, the boy who looked nothing like Henry.

“I tried to summon you, is that why—”

She nods. “So what's the plan?”

You blink, startled. “I was hoping you'd have one.”

She huffs, but finally manages to stand up straight, pushing off the arm of the chair to pace. It’s a familiar motion, comforting, the way her hands flutter.

“We don't have a lot of time,” she says. “You need to take Henry and go.”

“We’re not leaving you here.”

“You may not have a choice.” She looks at you, pain behind her eyes so fierce it staggers you. “I'm not sure how much longer I can control it,” she admits, her voice wavering, mired in guilt.

“Those people...you didn't mean to hurt them.”

There's no surprise, but it makes sense now, the sporadic nature, the lone house standing.

“I couldn't stop it.”

“You saved that boy.”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “It doesn't matter. I'm not strong enough—”

“You're the strongest person I know. You can fight this, Regina. I believe in you.”

She smiles, so broken. “I know you think so. But not this time.”

You try to protest, a million platitudes on your lips, your mother’s undying hope in your veins.

“They're all here, Emma. All the Dark Ones, in my head. It’s like they're taking over.”

When she steps into the light, closer, facing you, you can see the fear there, abject terror. She's never been afraid. As the cruel mayor, as the reluctant hero, as Regina. She’s always the one with a plan, always determined, always fighting and now she looks at you with devastation and grief.

“I don't want to hurt anyone else.”

“You won't,” you promise, because it's the only thing you can do. “I won't let you.”

It’s what she needs to hear, but your heart rebels at the very thought of doing what might need to be done. But Regina nods, eyes full of gratitude, and gestures to the vanity.

“I need you to make a sleeping curse.”

You remember Henry, the nights he woke up screaming about fire. Your mother’s quiet description, the loneliness.

“I don't know if it will hold me but it’s worth a try—”

“There has to be another way.”

“There isn't,” she snaps. “You need time. Time to find Merlin, and you can't do that if you're fighting me.”

“I—I don't know how.”

She nods, and lowers herself into one of the chairs facing the barrier. “I’ll walk you through it.”

You hesitate, but her body’s quivering and her eyes keep flashing so you roll up your sleeve and ask, “What first?”

It’s painstaking and exact, every measure of every ingredient has to be perfect. You try to keep her talking, about Storybrooke and Henry and anything light.

Out of the corner of your eye you see her shudder, and force your hands still. She can't use your fear.

She moves at one point, crossing the room to a large desk, and scratches something out on a piece of parchment. When she returns, she holds it between her fingers, then lays it on a small end table.

“A protection spell,” she says, voice graveled and heavy. “For your hearts. Get to as many people as you can.”

“I will.”

She winces, breathing heavier all of a sudden and you panic.

“Regina?”

“Keep working,” she says, strained, eyes squeezed shut.

You do, but can't help keeping one eye on her. “It’s never been like this with Gold.”

She takes a deep, shaky breath. “It affects everyone differently, or so they tell me.” She touches her fingers to her temple. “Deep down, Rumple’s always wanted this. He wasn't trying to fight it.”

You don't know what to say, any words that will help, so you repeat, almost more for yourself than for her, “Hold on, Regina. I'm almost done.”

She nods, and then gasps, crumpling, and you resist the urge to leave your work, to run to her. 

“Hurry,” she begs. 

You work in silence, calculating the time it will take Henry to get back down stairs, to find your parents, to climb back up.  You don’t want him to see this, and you know she doesn’t want him to see her, not like this. 

“Your mother,” she says between gritted teeth.  “I’ll go after her.  And I don’t think—”

She stops for too long, and you bury the sickness in your stomach to ask, “What?”

“Before, when I cast that curse, I wanted her to suffer,” she says, her voice flat and wavering.  “Part of me—I think part of me never wanted her dead.  I wanted her to feel what I felt, but this time—”  She catches your gaze, and you can see the anger under a thin, cracked surface.  

You know the story, vaguely, of Daniel and Snow and the King but it’s always felt like a fairy tale.  Your reality—foster families and lonely streets and running, running from everything—has always made more sense.  She never talks about it, at least not with you, just little things:  _ when I was queen we used to have—  _ or  _ in the castle there was—  _ or  _ in the enchanted forest things were—  _

Now you can see it. Every year of her long life, every betrayal reflected, every hurt, all the rage that drove a sad young girl to a reign of terror. 

“I’ll kill her,” she says, and it sounds like she wants to.  “I’ll kill her if I get the chance.” And then, darker, lips almost curled, “I’m going to kill her.”

“Regina.  Regina!” 

She stumbles. 

“Come on, you can do it.”

“Emma—”

“Don’t you dare,” you warn, “You need to hold on.  For Henry.”

“Henry,” she echos.  “Henry.”  She seems to breathe, for a moment, silence, and then a cry splits from her throat and items fly, the barrier shudders.  “Can’t you go any faster!” she snaps, “It’s like watching a child.” 

You glare, but it’s half-hearted and terrified because the words are Regina’s but the voice is cruel. Carefully pour the ingredients together, stirring the way she told you, exact, precise. You stir and stir and stir and finally, smoke begins to rise. 

“Okay, it’s almost ready.”  When she doesn’t answer, you turn your head to see her, hunched over, her back to you.  “Regina?”

“Get out.”

You falter.  “What’s happening?  Regina?”

“Get _out,_ Emma. I can't—it's too strong. Emma—”

You shake your head.  “No way. I leave you, you’ll find your way out of this.  You said it yourself, this is our best shot.”

She whirls, magic sparking, a red light slamming into the wall, close to you, but still contained.  Stone shatter and fall and the room shudders before it settles, and she crumples to her knees, palms on the cold ground.

Before you, the smoke turns from grey to blue.

“Hang on, Regina.”

“I don’t want this,” she whispers, so low you almost don’t hear, but it becomes a mantra, fierce and trembling.  “I don’t want this I don’t want this  _ I don’t want this." _

“It’s not going to take you, Regina.  You’re stronger than this.  You fight the darkness every day, I’ve seen you.  Just—”

“If you tell me to hold on one more time—” she grits, hair curtaining her face. 

Before you, the smoke turns purple, and you leave it to finish setting. 

“I'm taking down the barrier.”

"No, don't—" she says, but her body's heaving, and you concentrate, eyes closed, calling the magic the way she taught you. White light engulfs the wall and it falls, and you spin back around, scrambling for a long pin she keeps in her drawer, dipping it in the potion. 

“Okay. I'm done. Ready?”

You turn, and she’s standing behind you, eyes black, skin white, robe in a heap on the floor behind her.  When she speaks, it isn't her voice, and you know. 

  
“Too late.”  



	2. Chapter 2

_You walk her home after dinner at Granny’s. You aren’t sure why you feel the need—she’s perfectly capable of handling herself, and you aren’t sure what good you’d be anyway, with your sporadic magic and liquid nerves. You talk about Henry most of the way, some ridiculous thing your mother said yesterday, like it’s all perfectly normal that she hasn’t asked why._

_Since her vault you’ve come to a strange middle ground that feels more solid than in the past. You’re not sure if she’s forgiven you, but she doesn’t hate you and she doesn’t want to kill you and as far as you’re concerned from Regina, that essentially means you’re friends._

_You can tell by the way she asks about Hook, her tone stiff and blatantly disapproving, but she’s trying and it’s all you can ask for. Still, you swallow back the uncomfortable feeling that settles in your throat when you think about him, and shrug._

_“He’s... around.”_

_Regina arches an eyebrow. “Well that clears things up.”_

_“We went on a date,” you blurt out, cursing yourself immediately._

_Regina’s walk falters, just barely, and her nonplussed, “Oh?” is a little too forced. But she looks at you with interest and concern, and you find you want to talk to her, want someone who won’t go on about true love or soulmates._

_“I wore a dress.” You don’t know why you tell her, but you like the small laugh of disbelief and good humor, and you roll your eyes at yourself. “I know.”_

_“Doesn’t sound very you,” she says mildly, and you shrug._

_“I thought it would be nice. Go out, sit down somewhere with no… disaster or curses and just have a normal meal.”_

_“A normal meal,” she echoes. “With a 184 year old pirate.”_

_“It was...kind of a disaster,” you admit. “There was a whole thing with his hand—”_

_“His hand?”_

_You flush, and shake your head. “Not like that. No, he tried to... he wanted a good hand, so I guess he made a deal with Gold.”_

_“Which backfired,” Regina surmises._

_“Yeah. I don’t know the details. I’m not sure I want to know.”_

_Regina purses her lips, and seems to debate with herself for a moment before saying, “Just be careful.” You wait for her to add more but she doesn’t, shifting the conversation back to Henry, to the Snow Queen and her plans, to anything else but your two failed or failing attempts at relationships._

_It’s been difficult, with all the disasters and curses and fighting, but you’ve been trying to get to know her better. Little questions here and there, a story for a story. Sometimes it’s successful, but her past is a landmine, and things you’d never imagined hurting make her eyes shadow._

_You ask about her favorite book, and it’s the one her mother set on fire._

_You ask about her childhood horse, and she looks away._

_You can’t ask about her father, her mother, your mother, or nearly anyone else. You get shut down or locked out or pushed away. Sometimes, very rarely, when it’s quiet enough and dark enough she’ll tell you something, but it’s always tinged with sadness._

_So you’ve learned not to ask about things, and instead, study her actions and reactions—the way she gets irritated with dwarves far faster than with anyone else. The way she puts her whole body between danger and Henry._

_The last time you were in her house, you put a half-empty, dirty cup in the sink and barely got out of the way before she washed it._

_She likes the diner, but she won’t use the restroom. She wipes her fingers on a napkin after almost every fry. Sometimes, when she thinks no one is around, she hums to herself, and her voice isn’t half bad._

_You know she has nightmares. You know because sometimes, when you meet up in the early morning, or in the middle of the night, looking at her is like looking in a mirror._

_Though not right now—now, she’s complaining about something the school board has done, and you love her slightly awkward, perpetually sarcastic sense of humor. Right now you’re walking close together, and you make her laugh._

_Right now everything’s calm and everything’s bright and winter can wait for tomorrow._

\--

Her hand snatches your wrist and squeezes so tight you drop the pin, then twists. Bones break and you cry out her name, but she merely rolls her eyes and drops you to the floor, stepping over you like cracks in the pavement. Your arm is white hot with pain and you cradle your wrist, breathless, heaving as she leans forward toward the mirror, tutting at her reflection. 

“Well that’s horrible,” she says, and with a wave, changes—still black, but hard, metal and leather and her hair pulled up, slicked back, falling in a long wave at her side. Her face and hands are white, cracked black and shimmer. 

You try to scramble away but she freezes you without looking, still focused on her reflection, just a lazy hand waved in your direction. Her lips are painted red, and she turns, towering over you. “Too cliche?” She doesn’t wait for your answer, eyes sliding back to the mirror instead as she moves her hair to her other side, then behind her. 

“Regina,” you try, “Regina, stay with me.”

She rolls her eyes. “I haven’t gone anywhere. Just a little...change in perspective, that’s all.”

“You broke my wrist.”

She looks over her shoulder and glares. “ _You_ tried to put me under a sleeping curse.”

“You told me to!”

She huffs, fiddling with the ingredients on her desk, opening drawers, moving bottles. “And you were so eager,” she muses. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you wanted me out of the picture. But we both know that’s not true, don’t we?”

Your muscles ache, your wrist screaming in the position she’s frozen you. Still, she looks at you, and even with those black eyes, all you see is Regina. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She laughs but it’s sinister, a bit manic, and if you could, you’d shudder. “I’d like to see you try. All those magic lessons, day after day and you’re still as pathetic as you were at the beginning. Though, to be fair, that’s a bit my fault,” she says, retrieving a handheld mirror from a drawer and checking the back of her hair in the reflection. “Light magic is weak.” 

You remember her saying as much before, explaining to you the differences in conjuring, the differences in strength and ability. Fire, she said, was dark. Healing, light. There are exceptions she’d said, but for the most part, light magic doesn’t draw the same power. The finesse is better, more subtle, but pain and anger will always win.

You remember you’d shaken your head, insisting it wasn’t true, that light magic could be just as strong. You try to summon it now, pushing against the bonds holding you in place. It’s strong, biting, lashing out against your own magic in a way it never has before; you’ve always been in synch, always together, and it unnerves you almost as much as the curve of her spine, the casual way she looks through items on her desk, holding up vials and parchment and boxes without a care. 

“Regina,” you try, because you have to, “Regina, look at me. You can fight this. I know, you can fight this, just concentrate.”

She ignores your pleas, humming as she pulls open one drawer and then the next, searching for something. “Now why would I do that, dear?”

“Because this isn’t you.”

She looks up at that, or maybe the ferocity in your words you aren’t sure, her eyes narrowed and calculating before her lips raise in a smirk. Her voice is soft, sweet, but the lines on her face are hard. 

“Oh, Emma. It’s always been me,” she says, nearly laughing as she resumes her search, and you’re almost glad that she doesn’t see your face fall, doesn’t see the way her words stick in your gut and twist. “Only now, I’m much more powerful.”

You continue struggling, pressing the boundaries of her grip. “You don’t have to use it for evil,” you remind her, ignoring the desperation in your own voice. “You don’t have to give in to the darkness.” 

She sighs, but it’s no longer amused, now short and impatient. “Because being good has been so much better? Dark One or no,” she says, “this was inevitable.” She pauses, pulling a small, black flower from one of the drawers, fingers nearly reverent over the petals. 

“I refuse to believe that.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” she snaps, then immediately settles into calm. “Though I suppose that can’t be helped—most children take after their parents in some regard.”

You ignore the jab. “You’re not Cora.”

Part of you knows you shouldn’t press her, shouldn’t bait her, but nothing happens—this isn’t the Regina you knew in the early days, full of rage and fire. This is darker, more sinister, calm and controlled and it frightens you more than the pallor of her skin, more than her words. 

“Of course not, dear,” she says, almost distracted, twisting the stem off the flower. She sets it aside, and reaches for your potion. “My mother was weak.” 

You want to ask how, but it seems less important than the petals in her hand. “What is that?”

“Oh, this? Nightshade. In the same vein as the Neverland plant, except alone, it’s completely harmless. But mixed with lilac—which you so helpfully put in this sleeping potion—it becomes toxic.” She crushes the flower with the palm of her hand and slips the petal pieces into the liquid, smiling as it fizzles and sparks. “They say it’s a long, slow, agonizing death.” She dips the pin inside and turns to you. “Should we find out?”

Her movements are slow as she approaches, and you push harder at the spell, frantic. “You don’t want to kill me, Regina. This is the darkness talking, the Dark Ones. You don’t have to listen to them.”

“Well I’m going to stay simpering behind a barrier while you play Savior.” She crouches next to you, needle near your eye. “Your hero days have gone on long enough.” 

She lifts her hand above your arm and you think about Henry, losing two mothers and your mother losing a daughter and your father and Regina, Regina who would never, Regina who tried so hard and you want her back, now, and you push against the spell with everything you have and she’s thrown back by the wave, spell broken, pin rolling away. You scramble to your feet and kick it far out of reach, into the shadows, and before she can do anything more than stand, you pull the dagger from your pocket and order, “Stay put.”

She freezes, eyes flaring white again for a moment before they settle, and her lips curve up. “So you did heed my lesson.”

You frown, arm throbbing as you hold it close to your chest, protective. “What do you mean?”

“That’s a hard spell to break,” she says, following you with her eyes as you move to the vanity. “You’d need to have quite a bit of anger.”

You ignore the implication, and with your good arm, sweep everything off her vanity, bottles and potions and ingredients, letting everything smash to the floor. 

Regina rolls her eyes. “Charming,” she drawls, and then her face contorts in what you think is a smile. “Speaking of—”

“Don’t you dare go near my family.” 

“ _Your_ family? I think you’ll remember I was Snow’s mother, and Henry’s mother long before you.”

“You spent decades trying to kill her.”

She shrugs. “I needed a hobby.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot the piece of paper she’d written the protection spell on earlier, and quickly snatch it up, wincing when your wrist moves awkwardly and your bones gnash together. 

“They should be here any minute,” she says, tilting her head to the side, and you don’t want Henry to see this, not any of it, least of all that she hurt you so you step forward, chin raised, and hold out your arm. 

“Fix it.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Fix what? You should be more specific when wielding a Dark One.”

You glower at her mocking tone. “Fix my wrist. Heal it.”

She purses her lips, annoyed, but dutifully waves a hand over your arm and the pain vanishes, bones back together, and you sigh in relief. You can think straighter now, without the pulsing in your head. 

“Are you going to let me move, or do I have to stand here all day?”

“Stay right there,” you repeat, dagger outstretched, your mind racing as you try to think of what to do, what to say, how to make this better. You’re starting to hear footstep, and you know your parents and Henry are getting close. 

She sighs, folding her arms across her chest and says, “I’d have tried harder to kill you if I knew you’d be such a bore.”

You pause, turning to look at her fully. “Tell me why you didn’t.”

A flicker of irritation passes over her face, and she drops her hands to her hips. “Because of Regina. Your Regina,” she says, tapping the side of her head. “She’s still in here, kicking and screaming.”

“What do you mean she’s _in there?_ You said you were—”

“I am. But so is she. Two sides of the same coin, except I’m so much stronger. She’s like… an annoying little conscience, always wanting to play nice. Always wanting to be loved.” She says it with enough derision to make you flinch. 

“How do I get her back?” you demand, and her voice is oddly sober, oddly quiet. 

“It doesn’t work like that. You want the Dark One gone, you have to get rid of the darkness. Get rid of the darkness, and you kill Regina.”

You clench your teeth, your fingers around the handle. “I will if I have to.”

“I know you will,” she says, “And I also know Henry would never forgive you.” Her eyes slide over your shoulder. “Isn’t that right, Henry?”

You whirl to find your parents, your son, standing a few feet behind you, slack jawed and you shake your head, trying to explain. 

“Henry, it’s not what you think—”

“You said you’d protect her.”

“I’m trying to, but she’s—”

“You’re using the dagger on her. You swore you wouldn’t.”

“It’s not that simple,” you swear, “You have to trust me, she’s not—she’s not herself right now.”

Henry looks between you, and you can see the moment he realizes, see him sway backwards just a little, his shaky breath. “Mom?” he asks, tentative, hopeful, and the softness of Regina’s voice makes you turn back so fast your neck cracks. 

“I’m here, Henry,” she says, arms outstretched, eyes lighter than you’ve seen them. He takes one step forward and you raise the dagger. 

“Don’t touch him!” You grab Henry’s arm and pull him back, push him towards your parents. “If you hurt him I swear, Regina—”

“Why would I hurt him?” she asks, a small trembling to her voice you know is a ruse. “He’s my son.”

“You murdered your own father,” you snap, “Forgive me if I don’t trust your reasoning.”

“Emma!” Snow scolds, drawing attention to herself for the first time, and Regina’s eyes go dark again.

“Snow White,” she says. “Just who I wanted to see.”

“Mom, stay back,” you warn, putting yourself between the two of you. 

“Emma, what’s going on?” your father asks, voice calm and soothing and it’s enough to steady you, even as you keep your eyes fixed on Regina. “Henry said she was okay.”

“She was. She fought it as long as she could.”

“Fought what?”

“The darkness.”

“You look different,” Henry says from a safe place behind you. 

Regina shrugs. “Shabby never really suited me.”

“No, I mean, your eyes—they’re... different.”

“Of course they’re different,” she snaps, and Henry takes a step back. “Haven’t these two taught you anything about dark magic? Or are they too busy playing pretend heroes to bother?”

“What do you mean, ‘these two’?” he asks, and your heart shudders to a stop. “You’re my mom.”

“I’m your mom when I’m good, aren’t I?” she says, eyes narrowing, voice cold. “When it’s all comic books and movie nights and fighting the bad guys. But when I falter? When I make mistakes?” She laughs, shaking her head like she’s done something horribly amusing. “Oh, you should hear her,” she says, gesturing towards her head. “Protective to the last. She never wanted you to know how much it hurt her. How you _abandoned_ her.” 

“Regina, stop it, stop it now.”

She sighs, and shifts her gaze to you. “Your Regina’s dying,” she says. “And I’m far worse than the Evil Queen.”

Behind you, your mother steps up along side you, hands on Henry’s shoulders, and your father follows. “You won’t destroy this family,” Snow says. “We will do whatever it takes to save you, Regina, whether you like it or not.”

“Have you noticed?” she muses. “Every time you try to save me, you make everything so much worse?” 

Your mother swallows and your father takes her hand. 

“Oh, and you don’t even know the half of it, do you?” she says, with something akin to glee. “I never told you.”

“Told me what?”

She shakes her head. “This really isn’t the time—”

“Answer her question.”

She glares at you, her tone bored. “Seriously? For this?”

“Do it.” When she doesn’t speak, you grip the handle tighter. “I command you, Dark One, answer her question.”

There’s a long silence. Regina’s lips twitch, like she’s trying to contain the words and then, without warning, she laughs. Almost doubled over, her hand on her thigh and she laughs and laughs and waves her hand in front of her face. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, still laughing softly, “But that was adorable. You really are pathetic.”

“What’s going on?” Henry asks, at the same time as your father’s, 

“Why didn’t that work?”

“It would have,” she says, eyes flickering to David before settling back on you, a crooked smile on her face. “If you had the real dagger.”

She moment she says the words it dissolves to dust in your hand, and when you look up, she’s holding the real one, finger pressed to the tip. 

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s rude to steal?” she asks, then glances at David and Snow and purses her lips. “Oh, right. Baby in a basket.” She rolls her eyes. “I guess everyone makes mistakes.”

“How did you get that?” you ask, ignoring her, already stepping back with Henry behind you. “You never touched me.”

“Sleight of hand,” she says, and your father’s sword vanishes only to reappear in her hand. “Somebody up here is quite skilled. Doesn’t matter who.” 

Without a word, she gives the sword back. 

“You know,” she says, coming towards you at a leisurely pace. All of you move backwards, slowly, carefully, as if maybe she won’t notice. It’s ridiculous, but there’s not much else you can do. “I’ve never understood why villains do so much talking. Regina did the same thing, and all it did was give the heroes enough time to come up with some stupid plan that saves the day. So, I think I’ll save myself the effort. I think I’ll just kill you now.”

She hardly moves, but suddenly you can’t breathe. There’s something on your throat, around your neck, something pressing harder and harder and out the corner of your eye you see your parents doubled over as well, gasping. 

“Mom, stop!” Henry cries, and you try to catch him as he darts forward. “Mom!”

“Hardly,” Regina says, but Henry presses, and you start to see spots. 

“I know you’re in there. I know there’s still good in you, you can fight this.”

“For such a smart boy you’re awfully naive, aren’t you?” she says. You know it’s useless but you claw at your throat, fight with your magic but it feels bound as well, like your whole body’s on fire, being crushed from the inside. 

“No, I just know you. I know you don’t want to hurt them. It’s Emma, and Snow and David. They’re your friends now, they’re family.”

“They ruin everything.”

“No they don’t. They love you, and you love them, and you’re hurting them. _Mom, please—_ ” You scream in silence as he grabs her arm. Without looking, she shoves him off, and the burst of magic sends him flying. There’s a crack as his head hits the wall and you scream but there’s no sound, just black, horrible, agonizing black and your knees hit the ground and then—

_Air._ A rush of it fills your lungs and you choke, gasping and coughing, black spots still dancing behind your eyes and you can hear your parents making the same sounds, the same motions, and you try to scramble to your feet but you can’t yet, body too stiff and your voice is hoarse when you call his name. 

No one answers, and you force your head up, mindless of the pain as your muscles tear and you can see him on the floor, motionless. 

“Henry.”

And then you see her, a shroud of black blending into the shadows. See that his head is in her lap, her hands by his ears. You see that she’s whispering but you can’t hear what. 

“Regina, what are you doing?” Your voice is barely more than a hoarse whisper, but you manage to slide yourself forward, dragging the rest of your body with you. “Get away from him!”

She doesn’t move, hands glowing bright white, but her eyes meet yours just for a moment and it’s her, your Regina. Your father moves for his sword and you’re on your feet, holding him back, _No, wait!_ and he freezes, angry, confused, until Henry stirs, eyes blinking open heavily. “Mom?” he murmurs, and you know he isn’t talking to you. His eyes find hers and she smiles, and a tear drops from her cheek to his. 

“Stay still, Henry,” she says softly. “I’m almost done.”

You can see her arms shaking, her magic fizzling, but she keeps on and keeps on and keeps on until the wound is healed and she slumps, drained. Henry doesn’t move, but you can see his chest rising and falling, rising and falling. 

With a kiss to his forehead, Regina eases away, gently resting his head on the floor. When she stands, she looks to you, and says everything without a word. She says, _I’m sorry._ She says, _Help me._ She says, _I hate you,_ and _you failed me,_ and _you failed him,_ and _it’s not your fault._ She says _kill me if you have to, save me if you can._ She says, _run. Please, Emma. Just run._

“Regina,” you try, but her hands fly up and black smoke takes her away.


End file.
